Raymond Benson - Doubleshot

Bond took the time to smoke another cigarette, then went back inside. He didn’t feel like sitting in his compartment, so he walked through the first-class car and entered the adjoining second class. It was very crowded. He moved through the people standing in the corridor and went on into the next car.

He saw Heidi coming toward him, holding a soft drink she must have purchased from the food and drink cart.

“We’re going to be in the gossip magazines if we keep bumping into each other like this,” Bond said with a smile.

Heidi looked at him as if he were the rudest man alive. “Stop following me or I’ll call the conductor,” she said much too loudly. She pushed past him, opened a compartment door, and went inside.

Bond squinted and rubbed his brow. What the hell was going on here? Why the hot and cold treatment? Was she some kind of nut?

His old friend, the headache, was returning. He rubbed his temples, turned around, and went back to the first-class car. He rejoined the family in his compartment and sat in his seat, glumly looking out the window.

After six hours, not including the stop in Rabat, the train pulled in to Casablanca Voyageurs station, located four kilometers east of the city centre. It was midafternoon, and the place was buzzing with activity—commuters were trying to get home, tourists were catching the next express to another destination in Morocco, porters and guides were attempting to hustle business.…

Bond got off the train and looked around for Heidi. He didn’t see her in the mass of people. The train had filled up at Rabat, and now there was a rush of passengers trying to get on for the next leg of the journey.

He went outside into the warm air and hailed a taxi. The driver took him to Le Royal Mansour Meridien on Avenue des FAR, easily one of the most exclusive five-star hotels in the city. Ten stories high, it lay in the heart of the city’s business center and bore the name of Ahmed Mansour Addabhi, the most glorious line of Saadi monarchs.

Bond registered as John Cork in the circular reception space. The lobby was a large open hall, much like a cloister, with blue square divan pieces surrounding a thick marble column. The lobby was very bright, accentuated by the mirror panels set in a geometric pattern around the room. An indoor waterfall at the back and numerous potted plants created a garden atmosphere.

There was a message for him at the concierge desk. It was hastily scribbled on hotel stationery and read, “Dinner at 8:30 instead of 8:00. OK? Heidi.”

Fickle woman, Bond thought. He had a good mind to stand her up.

He took the lift to the third floor, where his suite was located. Bond was impressed with the size and tastefully decorated room. The suite contained a functional office, sitting room, bedroom with twin beds, and a bathroom tiled in white marble.

This would do nicely, Bond thought, but he needed a drink. His head was still pounding and he needed to unwind.

Rather than use the minibar, Bond took the lift to the ninth floor. La Terrasse, a bar overlooking the city, offered a superb view of the vast flat rooftops with antennas and satellite dishes, the splendid Hassan II Mosque, and Casablanca harbor. Bond ordered vodka with ice and sat at one of the tables to gaze upon the metropolis.

Bond didn’t like the city, but he appreciated its history. Originally called the port of Anfa, Casablanca had been created by Berbers. From the mid-nineteenth century onward, Casablanca became one of the most important ports in Africa, and once the French Protectorate took over in 1912, it had the biggest harbor in Morocco. Casablanca is now the fifth largest city on the continent.

Bond whiled away the remaining hours watching CNN in his room. The news was full of the British/Spanish conflict. Spanish tourists had been mobbed in London. The border between Spain and Gibraltar had been declared a no-man’s zone. All traffic across the border had been stopped. The Royal Navy patrolled the waters of the Mediterranean. The U.S. president had offered to broker a settlement. At the center of it all was the man who had sparked the trouble—Domingo Espada. He was seen in parades, marching with his supporters, calling for the return of a Franco-inspired government. The administration in Madrid had finally spoken out against Espada, claiming that he was a “rebel.” They were sitting on their hands, though, choosing to wait and see what was going to happen.

Plans for the summit meeting in Gibraltar had gone awry when the Spanish Prime Minister refused to sit at the same table with Espada. The king of Spain was intervening, and it looked as if the meeting would finally take place in four days, on Monday. Attendees would include Espada, the Spanish PM, the British PM, and several United Nations representatives from interested countries in the area.

It all seemed so far away and unimportant to Bond. At the forefront of his mind was the Union, the score he needed to settle, and the nagging fear that he was going mad.

Never mind, he thought. His rendezvous with Walter van Breeschooten was tomorrow morning.

At 8:30 sharp, Bond went down to the restaurant, Le Douira, which was designed as two distinct representations of Moroccan culture. One side was in a genuine caïdal tent, and the other was decorated in intricate blue and white tile work, like the inside of a traditional Moroccan palace.

Bond had decided he would confront Heidi about her erratic behavior on the train. He wasn’t about to put up with games, no matter how attractive a girl might be.

He waited for tenminutes and finally heard Heidi’s voice behind him.

“Here we are, sorry we’re late.”

Bond turned and blinked. He thought he was seeing double.

“John,” Heidi said. “I’d like you to meet my sister, Hedy.”

Now everything was clear. Hedy was Heidi’s identical twin.

FIFTEEN

“AS TIME GOES BY”

THE TWO GIRLS HAD IDENTICAL FACES, BUT HEDY HAD SHORT RED HAIR, which Bond quickly decided was really a wig.

“ This is the guy?” Hedy asked her sister.

“Hedy, this is John Cork,” Heidi said, beaming. “It’s okay that my sister came along, isn’t it?” she asked Bond.

Bond couldn’t help but laugh. “I believe we’ve already met but didn’t realize it. You weren’t wearing the wig on the train, were you?”

“No,” Hedy said. She folded her arms and looked at Heidi with a frown.

Heidi said, “Oh no, not again! This happens all the time! Damn it, Hedy, that’s why we never have any boyfriends.”

“You’ll pick up anyone, Heidi! He made a pass at me out of nowhere. I thought he was a pervert,” Hedy said, glaring at Bond.

“I’m sorry, John,” Heidi said. “It really does happen a lot. Men have a problem telling us apart. It’s a sore subject with us both. That’s why we sometimes take turns wearing the wig. It’s not that we compete with each other, it’s just that whoever we happen to be dating always ends up hitting on the other one, usually by accident.”

“Sometimes not by accident,” Hedy added.

Heidi agreed and nodded. “It can be a problem. I guess we should have used the wig on the train.”

She was right. Hedy was an exact copy of Heidi in every respect. They were both wearing full-length, relaxed fit-and-flare sundresses made of ribbed cotton, buttoned in front down to their knees. The only difference was that Heidi was in gray and Hedy was in black.

“Well, the wig helps, but have you considered dressing differently?” Bond suggested wryly.